Parlez Vous My Language?

What can travel teach me about judgement? 

Part Two: Language

 

I have a tendency to get myself to tropical places that have histories of being colonized, taken over, ruled, or occupied by foreigners. Maybe there are few places in the world that do not have such a history? Either way, for most of these places, when you research the history, it starts with the people who "discovered" them. Not with the people who were there minding their own business not looking to be discovered. 

St. Barth is no different. Columbus "discovered" it and named it after his brother. Apparently the people who lived here and presumably still live here are black Carib Indians. I have yet to see one. Granted I have not left the hotel so I have a very limited view. Everyone I've seen so far is white and French. 

 

In 1648 French colonists "settled" this island. "Settled" as if the place was all rowdy and chaotic and unsettled. Five years later some Carib Indians killed all the settlers and put their heads on poles along the beach to warn others. And that settles that.

But not really, of course. In 1763 the French were back for more settling. There were other take overs, sales, wars, conflicts, occupations, and general plundering over the years. But the French ended up with the island. In 1948 native islanders suddenly had French citizenship, including French passports. Now they could go "discover" France. Oh did I mention that the black islanders were slaves during many of those "settling" years?

It is easy to judge the past and obvious atrocities. Who am I really to sit here in my expensive room and judge? What and who existed on this bay, under my balcony in the 1600s? On whose bones do I sit right now with my wi-fi and espresso maker pumping toxins into the ozone? Well shit maybe I'm sitting on some asshole Caribbean king and queen's prison or slave quarters. I don't know. I got my history off the St. Barth Visitor Guide. 

 

I do make an effort to learn something about a place when I go there. Even when I'm there strictly for tourism of my own thoughts. And I try to be aware of my surroundings and treat people with respect and decency. OK yesterday I said the mean thing about the horsey blowfish lady. Sorry. But in general I am a considerate person. Which is why I surprised myself by not speaking French. It was just silly. I even told the man who checked me into the hotel that I speak French. He said we could speak French I preferred. I said "No I don't want to" like a pouty child.

Everyone I encounter here starts with Bonjour. If I say Bonjour, they continue in French but then I keep responding in English. Then they speak English. And I lose my voice. I even let them struggle with English. Why am I doing this to them? I speak French on a regular basis at home. With my ex-husband who has surrounded himself with French-speaking Cameroonians so that he rarely speaks English though he's been in Chicago for 12 years. Our son speaks French. I have a very good friend in France that I text, email, and speak to on a regular basis. In French. So what is my problem?

My stupid fear is that my African French won't hold up here. That I will be judged. This feeling stems from an experience I had on the high school French exchange program when I lived with a family outside Paris for a month. When we first got there, I walked into a boutique and proudly parler'ed my A+ high school French. The Parisian woman shut me down by responding in haughty English and letting my first French sentence drop to the floor like a plop of poop. 

But really am I going to let her hold that power over me now, 44 years later? If the French really think they own the French language and bristle violently when a non-native speaker generously attempts to speak it and inadvertently butchers it, then shame on them. You cannot own a language. Africans have done with it what they must. Did they ask the French to come over and rub French all over their complex, vast quantity of languages (Not "dialects"! Languages!)? 

But there I go again. I am the one judging here. That one woman in Paris was just that. One woman. Yes, she should have been supportive of a 16 year old American trying to speak her language. But 50 year old me should dismiss her already and build my social interactions on all the supportive French speakers I have met and also on my duty to speak my African French in case anyone does think France French is monolithic.

Then the towel boy (ugh, that's almost as bad as "settlers") comes to my beach lounge chair. He says, Bonjour. I say Hello. He struggles with English as I ask about what time lunch is and where can I get a paddle board. I see 16 year old me in Paris. So instead of dropping English on him like a poop plop, I say: "Je peut parler en Francais si vous preferez." He is relieved. 

 

Our interaction inspires me to try French with the lunch waiter. I order in French and ask her why red snapper is called oeil de bouef. I do get a laugh out of her but she completes the conversation in English. And at breakfast today I make another attempt to connect through language. I order in French and ask why the French toast in called pain perdu. She laughs and says, Yes we lost the bread. But she says it in English. 

I still have the towel boy who speaks to me in French. But I blew it a little today when he offered--in French--an explanation of the day's juice concoction and a free taste. When he came back to get the little cup, he asked how it was--in French. And I said--in English--that it tasted like baby food. I could have said that in French. But he did laugh. So maybe he understood and maybe he was happy to speak some English. I guess the whole thing was that we connected because we tossed the judgement aside. He let me speak my African French. I let him speak his French French. He laughed at my English joke.